


Common Sense

by buildhogwartsthenwewilltalk



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Klaus Hargreeves, Clairvoyant!Klaus, Drug Use, Gen, Hotel Oblivion, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Whump, Klaus Hargreeves-centric, Post-Canon, Psychic Klaus Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sober Klaus Hargreeves, klaus hargreeves uses his powers, no beta we die like ben
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buildhogwartsthenwewilltalk/pseuds/buildhogwartsthenwewilltalk
Summary: Despite what his family will tell you, Klaus knows a lot of things.He knows that the Beatles are overrated. He knows that should you decide on a skirt in December, it's best to invest in a pair of leggings first before you freeze your nuts off. He knows which dumpsters are a safe bet to sleep in and exactly how to convince anyone he meets that he'll either be the best they've ever had or a total waste of their time.What can he say, he's lived a strange little life, full of fun facts and fuck ups that would make the most unconventional, if tragically hilarious, self-help book ever written.But some things don't come from experience. Some things are just part of him, something so essential andtruein every way that he can barely put his finger on it, let alone voice it for another person, be them living or dead, to understand.It's a sense, a whisper, a little hand to push and pull him in whatever direction he should go to get him to the next meal, the next day, the nextdisaster.Sure, Klaus knows better. But figuring out what that means is a never-ending nightmare that not even a third eye can see a way out of.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Everyone, Klaus Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Reginald Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	1. Beginnings

_Wherever he is, Klaus knows it’s not the Ritz._

_He’s pressed against something that should be soft but scratches like sandpaper against his cheek and as he inhales, he resists the urge to gag. His lungs are filled with a sour stench, a charming, sickly-sweet mixture of sweat, vomit and … he’ll hazard a guess at wet dog? Whatever it was, it's better than any pick me up he’s ever had because suddenly he’s dragged back to lucidity faster than all the post-bender coffee-hot sauce surprises Diego ever tried to force down his throat._

_He groans, pulling his body up onto his elbows as something screeches and whines beneath him. He runs his hands over his face and when Klaus finally opens his eyes, he’s met with the ugliest damn wallpaper he’s ever seen in his life. It’s a frankly atrocious mixture of purple and mustard yellow, with its corners peeling up at the sides and a disconcerting stain spreading out from the exposed brickwork beneath. Klaus squints, his eyes adjusting to the dim light and follows the paper split down to a distressed looking headboard, followed by the crustiest set of bedsheets he’s had the pleasure of lying on (and boy was that saying something)._

_Okay, that’s gross._

_Klaus tries to sit up, his brain swimming in fog as he winches himself onto his knees. He catches sight of a bedside table and blindly runs his hands across the sticky, dust-covered surface until he comes across what he hopes is a light switch. He presses down until he hears a ‘click’, and a feeble glow flickers in an exposed bulb about a foot to his right. Fantastic. It’s not much, but as Klaus brings his feet out from under him and places his boots against the threadbare carpet, it illuminates his surroundings enough for him to know he might be a bit fucked._

_For one thing, he’s alone. Now that would normally be a blessing, Klaus had but a lot of time, effort and sanity into getting some personal space over the last three decades. But since he’s been on the wagon, he’d gotten used to sharing his day with a few benign hangers-on. Ben had called it progress, Klaus had called it a bullshit compromise, but now he’s acutely aware that there is not a single ghost infringing on his privacy whatsoever._

_Now, that’s not impossible, but certainly uncommon. Especially since he is sure that, despite his body hating every second of being catapulted back into consciousness, he is stone-cold sober right now. It was very rare Klaus ended up in a place that didn’t have at least one angry Romero reject following him around, especially when he wasn’t high as a kite._

_Furthermore, Klaus is pretty sure, as his brain struggles to grasp the fleeting memories of the last few hours/days/ years, that he was with his siblings last time he was awake. Now, how was he made not so conscious? Hard to say, the answer is on the tip of his tongue so give him a second, he always gets there eventually (and isn’t that the truth)._

_He knows that he should be one sibling short, that fact was made staggeringly clear to him the moment he watched that dark shadow walk further and further away into an office burning with piercing, ringing light. That hurts, oh boy does it hurt, but it’s the clearest fact he’s had welded into his psyche in a long, long time and his instincts tell him that it won’t do to dwell on it now, not when all he can see is an unfamilair outline of an old tube TV, a half-open dresser and the tattered curtains covering a grimy window._

_Yeah, his most consistent familial presence is gone, with a capital G, but he knows that Luther was right there next to him, and so were Diego and Five and his sisters so why the fuck is he-?_

_Wait, who still has a Tube TV?_

_Klaus shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet, wiping the dust from the bedcovers on his coat as he wobbles on his heels, his blood rushing to his head as the ground becomes lighter and the air less … present on his body._

_Christ, gravity is a bitch, isn’t it? If he could get back to Earth this second, that would be handy, thanks._

_Klaus pushes his hair against his face and regains his bearings. All the quiet is actually … unnerving. Especially since there's no pleasant buzz under his skin to accompany it. His mind is getting clearer by the second, and the more his body gets used to being on two feet, the greater the sense of dread begins to weight in his chest. The bitter truth begins to settle in his throat, prickling on the back of his tongue._

_Yeah, this isn’t going to be good._

_He scans the room, and his eyes fall on the blurry outline of a front door. The paint is peeling like dead skin off the ageing wood, and as Klaus tilts his head, he can see … oh yeah those are scratches... in rows of five ...at eye height. Yikes._

_Klaus almost goes to try it, but as he reaches out towards the handle something curls in the back of his tongue, shaking its metaphorical head. It’s certain and sure, stunningly clear thanks to the good (?) night’s rest he just had forced upon him and it demands to be listened to._

_It’s a sense. An instinct. A fact._

_Yeah, the door's locked._

=============== 

Klaus can’t remember the first time that happened. Not exactly. 

He knows he was quite young, maybe five or six years old? Certainly younger than eight, because by then he was sure. But without his father’s records and incessant desire for statistics, he finds it hard to keep track of these things. 

What he does know is that it was around the same time he started giving a crap about the ghosts. 

He can’t remember a time that they weren’t there, really. He’s never not had something, some presence or figure with him as he toddled around the academy halls with his concerned nanny in tow. They flickered, barely solid, barely coherent. They had no consciousness; they weren’t even that loud thank god. But they were always there, always with him. He was never alone. 

In the same way, he can’t remember a time when he didn’t _know_. 

Not in a child genius kind of way. No that was much more Five’s thing, with his beautiful mind style room decorations and his incessant need to question everything with a “ _Why? Why? Why?_ ”. Nah, Klaus was always average in that respect. Forgive him, all that education was completely wasted he’s sorry to say. Loved a bit of French and a bit of Russian, that was great fun. But history? Science? Mathematics? Didn’t have a clue. 

But he still knew. 

Knew what? Well, that’s hard to explain. 

It’s strange to think now, after all the years between here and then, but at one point there was a time when he was actually … you know … useful. Not in any hugely fantastical way. No, if that were true, Klaus’ life may have taken a strictly different turn from where it had ended up. 

In fact, it’s barely anything at all. Klaus can best describe it as … well here’s an example. 

Say you are one of seven. A huge brood of not-quite-but-probably-should-be siblings all sharing one skinny corridor in an enormous mansion. You each have your own rooms (thank god) but are liable to slip in and out of them when the nannies backs are turned. You might have a favourite sort of sibling, and you might have a least favourite. You spend what little free time you have with each of them accordingly. 

Similarly, you might also take it upon yourself to inflict irritation whenever possible. To be fair, Klaus was never the innocent in that regard. As long as he could wobble on his tiptoes, he took great pleasure in being just a little light-fingered. 

They didn’t have a lot of private possessions, with each birthday and Christmas coming around with ‘gifts’ bestowed in uniform on each of them with no regard for personal likes and dislikes. 

But every so often, there’d be a good day. The ladies who filled their time, whose faces became more familiar than their own father, though it’s hard to keep a finger on any of their features now, would bring a little something from the outside world. Totally against their contracts, but hey. What Reggie doesn’t know won’t hurt him. 

Unfortunately, these trinkets had a habit of going missing. Not all the time. Klaus thinks he may still have had a few of the shiny things pressed into his little hand as a child lingering in his old bedroom. But every so often one of the seven would come bursting into another’s room demanding that they “ _give it back!_ ”. 

And sure, sometimes they were perfectly justified. That jealousy continues to haunt the family to this day, and each of them was known to let it out in one way or another (as he says, Klaus can’t throw any stones here). But sometimes it would be less nefarious. Sometimes it would be dearest Pogo, picking up after them and removing various books, magazines and sparkly things at his discretion, normally ones that were at risk of catching his lord and master’s eye. Klaus supposes it was a sort of kindness, a meagre attempt to protect them in any way he could. 

None of this is particularly surprising, of course, just sibling drama vs a distant but well-meaning monkey’s attempts to soften the blow. It's one of the duller parts of their ‘extraordinary’ childhoods. 

What is strange, however, is that Klaus always knew the difference. 

When Number One came striding into his room, fists bunched and lip trembling, demanding that he “ _give me back the model Four it’s not funny give it bACK_ ”, Four had rolled his eyes for more than one reason. Sure, blame him for _everything_. 

But there’s something else. 

As he looks up from his paper, where he’s been absently doodling for the past hour, he throws a casual retort. You could even call it an accusation. 

“What would I want with your stupid models? Why don’t you go ask Five, he’s probably taking them apart or dropping them out his window right this second,” 

It drops from his lips without thinking, he barely even hears it himself. The words echo in his ears with a remote sense of meaning that only just registers. 

He watches as Luther huffs, before being pulled back from the room by a gloved hand and whisked upstairs. Klaus goes back to his colouring and forgets the whole incident. 

That is, until dinner. 

They were too young to join father upstairs, thank god, giving them a little freedom to talk amongst themselves as they eat. Normally Four would make it his business to poke and prod Six with this and that, it's his favourite hobby. But tonight, his attention goes elsewhere. 

One and Five are arguing. That’s rare anyway you look at it, the two generally keep themselves to themselves, but as Four leans in, he catches some conversation. 

“I was just _borrowing it_ to see how it landed, it’s no big deal-,” 

“But it’s _mine_ Five you can’t just take my things-,” 

“Why not? I gave it back –,” 

“I _took_ it back,” 

“Same thing,” 

“You _broke_ it Nanny _tell_ him-,” 

One of the women leans in, pulling the two boys apart and directing them back to their meal. 

_Told you so_ , Klaus thinks to himself as he shoves a forkful of pasta into his mouth. 

The evening goes on without incident (or an apology from Number One, looking back). Four goes to bed, tucked in and lights off. He doesn’t really think any more of it. 

But then it happens again. And again. And again. 

When Number Two protests loudly that he can’t find his miniature bowling set, it’s Number Four that suggests that maybe their monkey butler might have gotten fed up with the “terrible racket” it makes when the pins are each knocked, without fail, to the floor. When Two huffs out of Pogo’s room that evening, it’s clear the old ape’s judgement stands firm. 

When one of the nannies mutters to herself asking _where on earth she placed her reading glasses_ , it’s Number Four who walks wordlessly behind her, without a second to think, to produce them under the newspaper laying on the opposite side of the room. He hands them over with a gap-toothed grin, and the Nanny thanks him for his observation. 

When Number Seven goes to knock against Number Six, who in turn almost knocks against a priceless antique as they stand to attention in the living room, it’s Number Four who leans across and grabs her arm before their father strides in with a chilled breeze and an even colder manner. 

Four is full of little hints and tricks, a sense of “where” and “when” that’s nothing really. Nothing at all. Just an uncharacteristic awareness of the world around him. Of his siblings, his carers, the space and the house that holds his life in four corners. 

The little superhero to be doesn’t question it. Why would he? He has much bigger things to think about, about his siblings and his father and the word that never seems to stop; their _potential_. 

But at some point, something clicked. 

============== 

_Okay so, no front door then. Instead, Klaus turns from his spot on the wilting carpet and focuses his attention on the only other available exit; the window._

_There is another door, but the frail lamplight by the bed casts just enough to make out a frankly abysmal looking bathroom, complete with a seatless toilet and a sink that uh … let’s just say it could do with a shave. Apart from that, the room is four grimy walls encasing a bed, a dresser, an ancient-looking TV and an overturned box for a bedside table. Klaus would almost say it looks like an empty dorm room; when he left home, he once had an old squeeze who lived in student housing that made this place look like a five-star spa combo, but when the thought crosses his mind that doesn’t feel right._

_No, by all accounts, as best Klaus can guess he’s in a motel room of sorts? Something about the tasteless decoration and the general attention to hygiene has clued him in. He hasn’t had many experiences with these places, he never had much money for one in 2019 and the last time he ended up checking in it wasn’t exactly consensual. But the place has a … let’s say liminal vibe. Like you weren’t supposed to linger there for very long._

_But if that was true, how come Klaus is cosmically sure that the front door is locked?_

_So, he crosses the carpet, shaking out his hands as each step towards the furthest wall makes the pressure rise further and further in his throat._

_Come on, he thinks to himself, surely whatever it is can’t be that bad?_

_If the door is a no go (and he is sure of that), maybe getting his bearings outside might point him in the right direction. Maybe he could get someone’s attention or shit, he could slip out the hatch if he breathed in hard enough. He could find a payphone or whatever, and then Five or Luther or someone can come to pick him up to explain where he is and what’s going on. Easy, all in a day's work._

_But his instincts tell him otherwise._

_As he reaches the edge of the carpet, with the toes of his boots resting against the mouldering skirting boards, Klaus can’t help but hesitate. His chest is fit to burst, something huge and frankly astronomical pressing against his skull that is desperate for him to understand, to know._

_But unfortunately, and increasingly as he got older, wiser and deeper into the good stuff, it sometimes takes Klaus to see it with his own eyes before his third one can beat him around the head with what he already knew._

_His hands rest against the edges of the thin, greasy curtains, letting himself teeter at the edge of the proof, the final confirmation that Klaus, and the rest of his glaringly absent siblings, are incredibly, universally fucked._

_Alright, he thinks to himself, let’s see how far from Kansas we really are._

_He pulls back the curtain._

========== 

It’s difficult for him to pinpoint when he first understood it. When he first realized that the words that left his mouth and the certainty that led his steps were something more. Something not felt by his other _extra-ordinary siblings_ (and father assured them they were, though Four was never sure that that word meant what other parents, or even the nannies, did when they spoke to their children). 

Klaus is certain it must have dawned on him gradually, like all the other things in his world that the other children didn’t see, didn’t hear, didn’t _feel_ like he did. But he knows the day he was _sure_ , to the very second. 

Because he always knows. 

He was seven and a half exactly. He is sure because that was the kind of thing that was important back then. He was sitting in the classroom, with Pogo at the front and the nannies sitting beside each of them as they were led through some lesson on English or something, Klaus can’t remember. 

He can’t remember because it was far too _loud_. 

Little Number Four couldn’t understand how the rest of the room could bare it. His siblings sat in general silence, with Five bouncing his leg and Two tapping his fingers against the desk. They watched as Pogo droned on and on, some taking notes (Seven, Six, Five and Three) and some glancing out the window (One, Two). 

But Four couldn’t do either. 

Because a woman was standing behind him. 

She was old, well old for him. He was at the sort of age where he had no real sense of what that word meant yet. If he flicked his eyes to the side, he could just make out what she looked like; blonde hair with a long black dress and a green shawl. She swayed from side to side with her hands clutched in front of her, and she was singing. 

Well, if you could call _that_ singing. 

God knows what it was even supposed to be, Klaus can’t even remember the tune now. But it was low and sad, and in a language that little Number Four didn’t understand. And it was loud. Very, very loud. 

Looking back, it’s almost hilarious that it didn’t occur to him that no one else could hear her. Why would it? He had no reason to think he was seeing things that no one else could see, hear what no one else could hear. Before that point, his world had been full of whispers, of presences that were there but not really. Never so solid and so _real_ like this woman was. His life was smaller, simpler. 

To Number Four, she was simply part of the household, maybe invited by Pogo for something? Whatever he thought, her physical presence wouldn’t raise an eyebrow with his smaller self, in the way things rarely do when you’re seven. 

What did catch his attention was that she was getting louder. And louder. And _louder_. So loud that she was really starting to grate on Four’s nerves. 

So much so, that he leant over to his Nanny and whispered; 

“Nanny, could you ask her to be quiet? I can’t hear anything,” 

His Nanny, Nanny Schmidt he thinks her name was, frowned. 

“Who _Mausi_? Both your sisters are being as good as gold?” 

Four shakes his head. 

“No Nanny, not them, _her,_ ” 

He gestures behind him, looking up at the woman whose crooning continued to rise and rise in volume. 

Before his Nanny can respond Pogo taps the blackboard. 

“Number Four, is something the matter?” 

Nanny Schmidt beats him to it. 

“No Sir, nothing at all, do carry on,” 

Before he can protest, he is hushed. Pogo carries on. 

Four huffed, leaning back in his chair. The woman is deafening now, her voice so loud and in so much pain. Four has no choice but to put his hands over his ears. 

His Nanny sighed. 

“Please Number Four, you must behave, you are being disruptive to Pogo’s lesson,” 

Four can barely hear her through his hands and when he responds he knows he’s shouting. 

“But please Nanny, so is she!” 

He feels his heart start to thud against his chest, suddenly completely and utterly desperate. 

“I can’t hear anything, she’s too loud!” 

“There’s no one there _Mausi_ you’re not well, let me take you-,” 

“No please listen!” 

“Number Four!” 

Four looks up to see Pogo, and all his siblings, staring at him with concern. 

His face is wet and his throat hurts. His body feels like it’s vibrating, he just can’t understand how they can’t _see_. 

“Please, please Pogo she’s too loud can’t you-,” 

The clock hanging over the classroom chimed, it vibrations echoing against Four’s sensitive skull. 

He clamped his hands down tighter. 

“Please she’s right there,” 

He can feel Pogo’s eyes on him. When he glances up he sees the old ape look from him to his Nanny, to the rest of the room. 

He shakes his head. 

“The rest of you are excused. Number Four, stay here,” 

Klaus grips his hair, still painfully aware of the woman standing, unseen, behind him. 

His siblings filed out one by one led by their nannies, some rolling their eyes while others exchanged worried looks. Klaus was left with just his teacher and his own nanny, who both stare down at him with a mix of concern and irritation. 

Pogo touches his arm gently. 

“Number Four, what is the matter?” 

Four took a watery breath. Why was he crying? Only babies cry, that’s what Number One said. 

He keeps his eyes fixed on the desk, feeling each note sung behind his flash against his forehead. 

He whispered. 

“Please, make her stop singing,” 

Pogo kept his hand on his arm, but Four could hear him frown. 

“Who, Number Four?” 

He suppresses another sob. 

“ _Her,_ ” 

He bites his lip and keeps his head down, but he points behind him 

A beat of silence. 

Then Pogo responds. 

“There is no one there, Number Four,” 

Four couldn’t help it. He shouts back. 

“Yes there _is_ ” 

He looks up, his head spiking with pain at the sudden movement. He spins in his chair. 

“See!” 

His nanny went to say something, to pull him back and set him straight. But Pogo stopped her. Looking back, he’d probably been prepared for this moment for a very, very long time. 

He leant forward, gnarled fingers resting lightly on the desk. 

“Do you know who she is, Number Four?” 

Four swallowed and shook his head. 

“No, I don’t I-,” 

He looks up at the woman. Still blonde and grey and ever so sad. She’s still moaning on and on, in a language that is complete gibberish to his immature ears. 

But now when he looks at her, straight on, dead in the face, he stops. 

She’s a stranger to him. He’s never seen her around the house before, and there are lots of strange grown-ups in the living room all the time. But when he looks up at her through teary eyes, he’s stuck with sudden clarity. 

He can’t describe it. It has no words, no meaning. But he is suddenly hit with an overwhelming sense of … of.... truth? 

He sits with wide eyes and something burning, _fizzing_ in his throat. 

He listens to the song, with its crooning highs and sorrowful, heavy lows. It’s a sense of longing, of yearning, of the familiar. Of … family? 

He didn’t know what the words mean, there’s no way he could at that age. He’d be damned if he remembers the lyrics were, though he’d probably have a better shot at translation after all this time. But he followed the woman’s gaze, spinning back in his chair to look up to the confused face of his Nanny. 

Nanny Schmidt. 

He is sure. Certain. 

He swallows. 

“Nanny, did you have a sister?” 

Her face drained of colour. 

“ _I’m sorry?_ ” 

Four’s hands felt fuzzy, like they were shaking but without the movement. 

“A sister? Did you have one?” 

The woman’s mouth falls open. 

Four’s voice sounded distant, far away. 

“Because…,” 

Four’s mouth felt fizzy like he’d swallowed a sour-sweet or nasty medicine. 

He couldn’t hear his voice. The truth is so present, so clear that he can almost taste it. 

“Because I think she’s right here,” 

As he stared ahead, he heard a distant clatter, like several books being pushed off a table as a body staggers back for support. 

Klaus can’t remember what exactly happened next. 

He knows he must have been left alone a moment, as either the nanny or Pogo went for back up because at some point Hargreeves had marched solemnly in. He can almost hear the clip of his cane, demanding what had happened and why he was summoned and to “ _explain yourself Number Four!”_

He remembers words like “abilities” and “powers” and “opportunity” and, worst of all, “ _potential_ ”. 

He remembers being ushered out of the room as his Nanny breathes hard into her handkerchief, muttering under her breath in German as Pogo tried his best to calm her down. He thinks he might have even looked back, tried to get another glimpse at her. 

It was like he knew. Knew that he would never see her again. 

On reflection, he wasn’t that surprised when his father sternly peered over his monocle as he stood in his office and told him, with steely calm, that he “ _possesses the ability to see the dead_ ”. It ticked all the boxes, filled all the gaps from the first few years of his life. 

He remembers nodding dumbly as his father spoke, not really listening to all the undoubtedly important information that was being flung at him. Maybe if he’d paid more attention, he might have been more prepared for what was to come. 

But at that point in time, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Yeah, the woman was dead. 

But how did he know? 

How did he know who she was? 

She didn’t tell him; he couldn’t have a hope in hell of understanding what she said. In hindsight, he supposes it’s not a big leap. If she was dead and hanging around here, maybe she was haunting something, someone? Why couldn’t it be the woman she was standing closest to? 

But that’s the point. 

1) He didn’t even know she was dead; to him she was just another strange woman in the house. Admittedly a crying, wailing woman that no one else could see, but even as he trembled slightly in front of his father’s desk, he hadn’t really grasped that the _things_ in the sidelines of his vision were … were… _dead_. 

2) He didn’t take a leap. Didn’t draw the connections himself, didn’t walk it through, or use the logic that his father and his brother clung to. 

No, he didn’t jump to any conclusions. In fact, it’s more like he was pushed. 

But pushed by … himself? What? 

It doesn’t make any sense, and even though his little seven-year-old brain understood on some level that very little of how he lived made sense, he knew that this wasn’t _right_. 

And that was important. 

That _felt_ important. 

He almost said something, almost raised his hand to confess, to tell his father “ _actually sir, there’s something else-,_ ” 

Then Hargreeves raised his voice. 

"Tomorrow Number Four, we shall begin to test your ability” 

He smiled, clipped and subtle. Klaus should have preened under a rare morsel of his father’s praise and attention. But Hargreeves’ glee glinted in his eyes like the edge of a blade. 

“Tomorrow, we begin your _training,_ ” 

Four almost gagged. On the final word, something salty exploded on his tongue and the little boy suppressed a shudder. 

No. 

_No._

He had to keep this to himself. 

As he was dismissed, walking back his room where he knew his siblings would be waiting for him, he understood something, deep inside an unreachable part of himself. 

Something that would only confirm his suspicions further. 

This would not end well. 

_==============_

_The outside seems endless, a sea of white dust and cavernous welts dug into the landscape that stretches out far beyond what Klaus can see. His fingers twist into the fabric gripped against his palms and his mouth hangs agape as he stares into the rolling expanse of … nothing._

_It’s quiet, vast, so utterly, utterly empty, and it isn't like anything Klaus has ever seen before._

_He has a funny feeling that one of his siblings may have though._

_He brings his eyes up from the pale and eternal desert towards the sky, which also is just … forever. Forever in a sense that he can barely comprehend, a constant blanket of night that has no fringe, no end for Klaus to grip as he slowly realizes exactly where he is, and where he is not._

_He looks left and right and it’s nothing, barley pinpricks of distant light like holes in thick, knitted fabric as he gazes into the eternal expanse that engulfs him, threatens to swallow him up._

_As he stares into … oblivion._

_That is, he stares until its broken, intruded upon by a tiny, impossible, lonely little sphere of blue._

_Shit._

_Klaus swallows as his situation’s gravity, not that there should be any of that up here, hits him squarely in the face._

_Yeah, he’s not sure even he could have seen this one coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Been a hot minute, how are you?
> 
> I've been playing around with this idea for a little while, specifically since I read @sunriseseance's clairvoyant!klaus theories on Tumblr and that concept has been living in my mind rent-free ever since. 
> 
> This is basically two stories in one, flipping back and forth along a timeline (as the show is often wont to do), which is a challenge but let's see how this goes shall we? 
> 
> I'll try and upload semi-regularly, but uni is a bitch so it may be a bit intermittent (sorry!) - I hope you enjoy nonetheless!!!!!
> 
> Bye!!!


	2. Behind Closed Doors

_Okay, the Moon. Klaus is on … the fucking Moon. There he was thinking he’d ended up on a roadside dive, or the other end of town. Nope, try a whole different celestial body, three hundred thousand and something ‘whatevers’ from Earth._

_Sure, why the hell not?_

_He presses his weight against the windowsill, his breath fogging up the impossible panes of glass as he strains to see out into the grey, bleak landscape stretching before him. There’s no one out there, which shouldn’t surprise him because, and he cannot stress this enough, he’s on the damned Moon. But there shouldn't be a solid three-star hotel up here either, so he might as well have a look to see if the pizza guy is on his rounds too._

_No one sporting a bike and an oxygen tank appears, but as he presses his face against the frame to peer around the corner, he is met with an ocean of brick and mortar, studded with hundreds of shining holes that stretch into the horizon. Looking the other way reveals the same, and Klaus lets his forehead knock against the glass._

_Luther was right; this place fucking blows._

_So, it looks like he was correct with his hotel punt, but how the heck do you get a whole ass building into orbit, let alone on this rock? What the hell is it doing up here?_

_Scratch that: What on the distant, green, godforsaken Earth is he even doing up here?_

_He shuts his eyes and tries to make his neurons fire, forcing blurry memories to slide into place. It’s hard, the last few years have been a complete whirlwind, but as the pane begins to spread its chill into his brain, it shoves his thoughts towards … home?_

_No, not home. Never mind he hasn’t called the mansion that in too many years, but when they, his family and him, arrived it was ... wrong?_

_There was a painting, and a man, their dad? And there was … there was...  
He stands up straight, his eyes dancing with black spots. _

_Shit._

_Ben._

_But he wasn’t their Ben though, he was different? Colder, a stranger. There were more of them too, more people... like them?_

_There must have been a struggle. The details are still fuzzy, but as Klaus runs his hands across his scalp he winces, feeling the beginnings of an egg on his skull. There was shouting, some flashes, definitely a few punches thrown._

_They took him down. They took all of them down, one by one._

_Now Klaus being an easy target isn’t a surprise, but Five? Vanya?_

_Shit._

_He forces his eyelids apart and stares out the window again._

_Okay so, Dad is a dick. Ben is alive, sort of? Not really. Their family just got a little bigger than it was three days ago._

_Alright. Okay._

_But how the fuck did he, did all of them he assumes, even get up here?_

_He turns, leaning against the window with his eyes drifting back to the hotel door._

_And how are they going to get out?_

====

“ _Number Four, pay attention!_ ”

Four groans, rubbing the back of his legs. Two offers him an arm, his face twisted in sympathy as he tries to pick himself up from the training room floor, but Four bats his brother off as he winces to his feet with a groan. Two shakes his head, adjusting his gloves. 

“Come on man, you’ve gotta wake up, this is too easy!” 

Four rolls his eyes as his brother retakes his defensive position, spreading his legs apart and raising his fists to his chest in anticipation. In the corner of his eye, their siblings mirror his pose, as Three dips in and out of Six’s swings and Number One takes his leaderly frustration out on Number Five’s vanishing shadow. 

Four has no choice but to join them, re-distributing his weight before nodding as Two lunges forward with a slight smile. For all his grumbling, it’s clear that his brother enjoys this, especially with the way he huffs triumphantly as Four tries (and fails) to counter his strike. 

Four wishes he could relate, but as has been clear to him and the rest of the room for a long, long time already, he is not exactly Muhamed Ali. As much as he prefers this to his … other training, it doesn’t make him relish the feeling of tripping over his own feet for the seventh time that morning. Sure, Four is pretty sure that should anyone on the street or even on those ever-abstract promises of _missions_ try to go for him, it wouldn’t be an issue. He’s small, yeah, but he’s light on his feet and can pack a punch if he wants to. 

But that isn’t enough for Hargreeves, no sir. 

If Four wants to get anything more than an ice-cool shake of the head from his father, he has to keep up with the rest of them. No matter if they have super strength, perfect aim or can convince you not only to stop attacking but to turn your fists on your own nose instead. 

Unfortunately, none of Four’s particular skillset can quite match up to that. All it’s bringing him at the moment is an irritatingly graphic corpse floating by the front door that, while not the worst he’s seen by any measure, is definitely putting him off his A-game. It’s not being loud, thank God, but Four could really do without it’s gaunt, bloodless face floating into view every time Two tries to grab him by the throat. 

And as for the rest of it … let’s just say it hasn’t born any fruit so far. What’s the point of being kinda-sort-of-psychic if you can’t tell when your dearest sibling is about to knock you flying? 

Not that his family are any the wiser to that little detail of course. But the irony can’t be lost on him as Four only just catches Two’s fist before being twisted back over his brother’s shoulder. Sure, he knows when the postman is coming down to the second and can pick out exactly where Pogo hides the keys to the backdoor every time without fail, but any real danger and apparently whatever _this_ is decides that he can figure it out by himself. 

In all his Twelve years now, Four still doesn’t understand it. Sometimes he’s full of divine wisdom, guessing anything from missing textbooks to songs on the radio, he’s even got a knack for anticipating the rare visitor at the front door. But as much as that’s a bit odd, it’s not like he’s got the lottery numbers on speed dial. 

Furthermore, it’s painfully obvious that he’s only got his eyes and wits to guide him when faced against Two, Three, or God forbid, One and Five in the training ring (Six always tries to take it easy on him at least).

He’ll admit there is a grim satisfaction in keeping secrets, holding something close to his chest in a house where it feels like everyone is always breathing down the other’s neck. But at this point, Four wouldn’t say no to some advice. Some way to, he doesn’t know, control it? Aim it even? Perhaps some pointers on when to have half a clue if his brother’s going left or right. 

If nothing else, he’d at least like someone to tell him he is not crazy, even if he is sure that, at least for now, he is perfectly sane. That’s kind of the point. 

But he knows the price of that wish, and it’s not worth it. Not when there's another pair of eyes glinting behind a single circular glass scrutinizing his every move. No sir, he’s not blabbing. Not a chance. 

So here he stays, face down on the floor with his brother’s foot on his neck. 

Four taps on the ground twice and Two lets him up with a grin. They’re about to go again, and Four privately wonders what the hell he did to his brother to deserve this pounding. He muses on whether he apologized properly for the harmonica incident when a merciful whistle cracks through the air. 

All the children look up in unison, with One and Five balanced almost comically on top of each other and Three pulling Six up from the ground. 

Number Seven holds the instrument away from her lips, clipboard in hand as she lingers at their father’s elbow. The old man folds his arms, his monocle blinking in the late afternoon sun, and they each wait expectantly for his lordly commands, Four twisting his neck to try and click whatever bone Two dislodged back into place. 

Their father regards them for a moment, then bestows a curt nod. He turns on his heel with timid Number Seven in tow, stepping out the door without a single word and leaving the rest of them to breathe a sigh of relief. 

None of them break into chatter, in fact, it’s a subdued affair as they go to grab their stuff from the pegs, including the equipment, gear and general clutter that litters the chamber. Four collapses onto a bench, his body sore from the colossal beating it just took and his lungs requesting some designated oxygen time, please.  
He unzips the front of his jacket and lies back against the wall as his siblings bustle around, collecting kit and extracting themselves from combat gear. They file one by one out of the training room, Three trailing behind Number One while Two elbows Five in the ribs. You know, friendly stuff.

Six then shuffles into his view, gesturing towards the door with an eyebrow raised, but Four waves him off. As much as he’d love the first chance at a shower, the thought of climbing stairs right this second isn’t much of a motivator. His brother shrugs with a quiet _‘suit yourself’_ and vanishes back out of his sightline. 

So Four finds himself alone, well, not counting the Halloween town goon by the door, and that is _glorious_. It’s a rare thing to have a moment to yourself in this house, especially for him of all people. He allows himself to enjoy it, feeling the sweat drip down his forehead onto his eyelids as he searches for any excuse to stay put.

But then he forces himself to sit up, pulling off his gloves and running bare fingers through his greasy hair. Convincing his aching limbs to start moving, he leans on his thighs to look across the room with a sigh. 

Grace will be in at any moment to clear up after them, meaning he shouldn’t linger, lest he gets reported for idleness to the big man upstairs. 

The thought probes him to his feet, but as he goes to drag himself through the unofficial and by all means invisible doorman, he stops.

The place is empty, the others took their stuff with them and they know better than to leave the place a state, less they incur Reginald’s fiery wrath. It doesn’t even get cleaned until tomorrow morning, so why would Grace need to-?

He spins on his heel and, without thinking, ducks under his bench. His eyes scan the pristine tiles before he eventually smirks, shaking his head. 

There, lying prone on the cold, hard floor, are Allison’s spare training shoes.

 _Sure,_ he thinks, reaching out to hook them with his fingers, _two and a half hours of getting my ass kicked, and now you’ve got something to say, huh?_

He stands and ties the laces together, before grabbing his own bag and finally heading towards the door. 

He barely hesitates when reaches the guarding ghost, holding his breath as he passes through with a frosty shudder. It’s an unfortunate fact of the house, but they're not as bad as ... the others. This guy is less aware, less emotional, and the poor fella doesn’t care about anything but himself and the gaping hole in his chest. 

Four pushes through the threshold, wincing at the ancient oak doors creaking in their hinges, and doesn’t bother to un tense as he braces himself for what comes next. That way, he does not jump when he is met with a face full of patterned skirts, shining heels and floral perfume.

He grins innocently up at his mother, who smiles pleasantly in return, her lips waxy and eyes only slightly uncentred. Her hands are held together, almost in prayer, and she leans down with her head tiled and teeth on show to address her son. 

“Oh, hello dear! I was just sent to fetch something for – why! It looks like you’re already ahead of me!”

She gestures towards the sneakers hanging from his hands. Four shrugs.

“Yeah Mom, it’s okay, I can take them up to her,”

She smiles. 

“Oh, sweet thing, you are a good boy,”

It’s wonderfully simple to do that. Four would almost say it’s like the old man programmed to be easy to please. It’s all fake, all zeroes and ones and promises that their own father can’t be bothered to make for himself. Four doesn’t like to get swept up in it, not like Two does. 

But as much as he can see the seams in her skin and hear the mechanical click when her eyeballs move from side to side, he also knows that approval of any kind is a rare currency in this house. So, he smiles in return as she lets a plastic hand rest gently on his shoulder. It’s only just warmer than the corpses he walks through on the daily, but it’s better than nothing. 

Grace pats his cheek, her lips twitching with something that tries to be affection, then sets off past him down the corridor. Four, in turn, begins his trek up the stairs towards their rooms. 

The climb is a bitch, notwithstanding the old lady with the bent neck who liked to traipse along the bannister day and night, but he makes it within minimal groaning. He takes a quick detour to drop his stuff off through his bedroom door, careful not to knock over the stack of notebooks he’d swiped from class to doodle in, before slinking down the hallway. 

He passes the bathroom, where he hears the hiss of the shower rattle against the steaming glass. It’s not clear who's in there, but Four hazards an ever-uneducated guess that it has to be Six. No one can bring themselves to say no to him, no matter how much Five declares that ‘he saw it first’, and it’s not like he takes very long anyhow. He’s efficient like that. 

Eventually, Four reaches the corridor’s end. Two doors shape the hall at an angle, and initially, he plans to lean the sneakers up against his sister’s wall and skedaddle, leaving only a knock to alert her before he runs to finally get this gross gym gear off. 

But when he raises his knuckles to the defiant wood, he pauses. As his skin barely brushes the paintwork, he swallows, his mouth suddenly deprived of all moisture. He lets his finger trail down the frame before nodding to himself. 

Four checks behind him a second, and then turns on the balls of his feet to press his ear against the opposite door. He can’t hear anything at first, there’s no music or movement or that much really happening behind it. Sure, there rarely is, but the quiet is stagnant against the corridor’s usual hustle and bustle. He knows that he’s on to something. 

Four holds his breath and as he bites his lip, he smiles. Behind the ageing wood, he just makes out a murmur, like hushed voices whispering behind a desk or a bedframe. He can’t quite hear what they’re talking about, but something tells him …. yeah, that’s right. 

Plans. Building something? Conspiracy. 

Ah yes, his favorite. 

Satisfied, Four raps his fist against the frame. He waits for a second, running his thumbs absently over the rubber soles before the door is almost ripped off its hinges. 

“What do you – Four?”

Four smiles sweetly. 

“Could you tell our dear sister that if she keeps this up, she’ll be forgetting her head next,”

He shoves the shoes into his gawping brother’s hands, who opens his mouth in protest, gesturing towards the neighboring room with a slight shake in his voice. 

“Why don’t you give them to her yourself?”

Four shrugs.

“I figured since you two get on so well, it’s easier this way, besides-,”

He leans in.

“I wouldn’t want to break up a secret club meeting or anything,”

Four winks, and before One can say anything else, and also before the suspicious footsteps behind him reach the door, he’s already backing away down the hall.

But as he leaves, something makes him look back. 

“If you wanna keep it private from the powers that be though, may I suggest finding a new headquarters? It gets ever so crowded down here,”

Before he gets a response, a disembodied hand grabs his brother by the shoulder and the door slams in his face. 

Well, mission accomplished.

Triumphant, Four makes his way to his room, his reluctant feet gratefully dragging him towards his bed. But just as he twists the handle, he hears another click behind him, and a very damp Number Six appears. He's wrapped head to foot in towels and offers a groggy smile in his direction.

Four would return it, but unfortunately, he has bigger priorities. 

The race, as it were, is on. 

No sooner than his brother’s foot left the steaming doorway, Four is filled with a sudden burst of adrenaline and he launches himself across the gap. He thinks he’s going to make it too, as his poor brother darts out of the way with all hands-on deck as a chorus of clicking locks echo behind him.

Four has his fingers on the doorknob with a victorious grin, when a flash of _blue_ cracks across his eyelids and he collides, headfirst, with the doorframe. 

Damn. 

He hears Six snort as he turns down the corridor and Four struggles, once again, to his feet.

“ _Better luck next time,_ ”

====

_Klaus rubs his hands over his face, puffing out his cheeks with a sigh as the windowsill digs into the back of his legs. His hand comes to rest against his neck, rubbing to an inaudible beat as his eyes remain fixed on the front door. Then he stands, absently brushing the back of his coat, and slowly treads across the carpet back to the blocked threshold._

_Klaus still doesn’t try the lock; he knows there's no need. Instead, he runs his hands across the peeling paint until they come across a hole in the woodwork. It’s small and covered by grime, but he runs his thumb over the gap and smiles as he reveals a small glass peephole. Klaus presses his cheek against the door to squint out into the corridor, wrinkling his nose at what smells, looks and feels like dry rot._

_He is met by … not much. There isn’t a lot of light, but he can maybe see the opposite wall, perhaps even a door? The corridors’ décor matches his room, and as Klaus strains to see he finds that the hall refuses to show signs of anything, neither a patrolling bell boy nor a hint towards his siblings._

_He steps back from the frame with a groan, letting his palm fall with a resolute thud. Great, talk about a dead end._

_He turns to lean against the door and gives another passing sweep of his lodgings. If the front exit is a no go, and he has a sinking feeling that the window will neither open, nor will outside be particularly hospitable, does that mean he’s stuck? Like … properly stuck?_

_Klaus does not like that, not one little bit. That feeling rears its head again, the pressure in his chest pushing against his ribs as his heart throbs harder with every beat. Even if this place is resolutely Caspar free, he really cannot see himself doing well if he’s supposed to call this shit hole home for … however long his dad decides they should be up here._

_Shit. Shit Shit Shit._

_Okay no, he has to relax. He can’t start panicking yet. Klaus has a feeling, like always, that this won’t be particularly helpful._

_So, he’s stuck in the room for the time being. A gross, ill-maintained, somehow extra-terrestrial hotel room. Great._

_But if it’s a hotel room, don’t they usually come with, he doesn’t know, amenities? If nothing else, a little pillow chocolate or whatever wouldn’t go amiss right now (though Klaus might question its edibility)._

_Fulfilled with some purpose, he stands up straight and begins to survey the room. Klaus runs straight for the bathroom, holding his breath as he pokes his head through the door. He’s looking for something he could try the lock with, maybe a pair of scissors or something else sharp. That sort of thing is always handy in a pinch, either way (he learnt that on the corner of fifth avenue, and wouldn’t Diego be proud)._

_But despite rifling through the somehow still disgusting empty cupboards for several minutes, he comes up empty. Wiping his hands on the bath towels (though he immediately regrets it because Christ how can something be crisp and damp at the same time?) Klaus moves back to the main room._

_As he turns the corner, he glances towards the dresser as he goes towards the bed but stops suddenly. Tracking back, he realizes he’s caught the edge of a … cable?_

_He crouches to examine the wire and crawls to follow it up the side of the cabinet. He peers behind the television set, tracking the line until it slips down into the front drawer. Huh, okay?_

_Klaus takes the handle and pulls, wincing as the aged wood creaks against the edges. The cable loosens and Klaus huffs out a victorious laugh._

_He’s found a phone._

_It’s made of dirty white plastic, with a coiled chord feeding into a battered receiver. The buttons are grey, with the painted numbers faded from age and dust. Klaus reaches in and extracts the device to place on the main surface, disturbing the thick layer of lint on the top, and greedily lifts up the handset._

_He’s met with a monotonous tone, ringing with feedback as he brings it close to his ear. It stings against his senses, so on instinct, he drops it to his chest with a clatter. The noise continues to crackle and spit, and Klaus curses._

_Now what? It isn’t like he had a number to call or anything, there’s not even a code for a reception on here (and he’s very much like to speak with a manager, or at the very least, whoever is in charge of the cleaning around here)._

_He goes to shove the device back and continue on his search when one of the dial buttons catches the light. It’s the least faded out of all of them, and in the shadow, it marks out the number ‘4’._

_His button._

_It had been a joke amongst them all, as kids. Growing up being addressed by numbers, not name, meant it was hard not to get confused sometimes. Whether it was Pogo counting aloud only for several small children to come barreling down the corridor for fear of not turning up on time, or years later when standing line at the store, or the pharmacy, or anywhere really, only to immediately curse as you stand to attention with your name blasting over a speaker._

_It was an eternal reminder that your own father couldn’t be assed to pick up the A-Z baby names, despite dropping millions on you in the first place. But even as tweens, it had had its certain … charms._

_Sure, their lives were in a literal order, with Klaus dead set in the middle. Like everything Reginald did, it was all logistically arranged so that even his literal toddlers could be stored in an easy to file system._

_But Klaus still remembers joking with Diego once that if he stood on his shoulders that would make them Ben for Halloween (because Two plus Four is Six)._

_He remembers seeing Allison’s first movie being reviewed in a paper at seventeen, smirking to himself that it got “three stars” (and as much as he loves his sister, he had to admit that was a very generous rating)._

_He also remembers being picked up, almost literally, by Diego a few years later, after he’d finally flagged him down at 3am to collect him from a roadside dumpster. He’d been slurring a little yeah, but he’d had enough cognition to point out that his brother would be a lot easier to reach if he only had one button to press._

_Huh._

_There’s that sense again. It's stronger this time, and Klaus has to swallow hard as his mouth dries with the idea. He has no clue what room he’s in, shit, did whoever built this place know about all that? Had it even come up before, in that culturally insensitive bar back in Dallas?_

_But the sense is clear and sure, so Klaus finds his hands prickling as they slowly come to press down on the keypad._

_0-0-0-1_

_He holds his breath as the speaker lets out a promising buzz, but groans as a tinny, distant voice echoes down the line._

_“I’m sorry, the room you have tried to contact is unavailable, please try again later, and enjoy your stay at-,”_

_Klaus put the phone down. Shit._

_But if he’s right and that is, in fact, a room, then maybe?_

_Something heavy and prickly bubbles inside his throat, and it gives him the feeling he’s on the right lines. So, he tries again._

_And again._

_And again._

_He’s all the way up to 0-0-0-5 when he finally gets a break, as he’s met not with the same irritatingly cheery voice but instead with a single, monotonous beeeeeeep._

_Almost like somethings been knocked off the receiver? Or maybe the line had been disconnected?_

_As much as Klaus likes the variety, it’s not very helpful. And it leaves only one more chance._

_As Klaus carefully dials, his finger resting on the bottom left key, he feels his heart beat faster, and his body fizzes with a sense of right that steels him as he finally hits dial._

_A second. And another. And another._

_The receiver clicks._

_The line hisses down his ear, the sound crackling like lighting in a hailstorm, but Klaus nearly jumps as he just makes out a faint, high and distinctly familiar voice whisper like a steaming pot along the connection._

_He doesn’t mean to shout._

_“Vanya! Oh, thank god!”_

====

Four likes Seven

It’s something that seems to surprise people, and he supposes he can understand that. Four may have always been on the small and skinny side, but he has been told his personality more than makes up for it. He’s loud, he’s proud, and he will make it everyone else’s problem. He’s rarely not shouting, even less likely to be sitting still, and it’s probably a fact of the universe that he will always be on someone’s nerves.

Saying that, who was it that said ‘opposites attract’? 

Look at him and Six. Out of all his family, Four likes to be in their resident book worm’s room the most. He’s usually found on his floor, or his bed, or his windowsill, lazing about and making a nuisance of himself. Six is what Four can only describe as soft. He doesn’t like fighting, doesn’t seem overly stoked about the whole mission things (who is?) and is happiest when left alone. Unfortunately, Four rarely allows that. What can he say, his brother is an easy target, and despite his very obvious preferences, he only tells him to get lost two or three times a day. Therefore, he usually lets Four do his thing, that thing being he lets his brother talk. 

It’s not exactly comfy. Four is very aware, as he always is, that he is intruding on what is his brother’s rare moment of alone time. He probably would rather be by himself, and it's not very nice to take that away from him. But it’s routine, Six isn’t going to stop him, and he doesn’t give him a hard time when Four takes advantage to manufacture some background noise in his increasingly crowded life. 

Speaking of not giving him a hard time, Number Four likes Number Seven. He doesn’t resent his family for his uselessness in the training ring, not really, but in a house like this one it’s easy to feel attached to the one sibling who hasn’t given you a black eye yet. 

On top of that, there are lots of things to like about his sister. 

She’s clever, forging ahead in subjects he barely struggles through. She always been able to color within lines, tap her foot in time with the music. When they were little, he almost remembers her holding his hand and leading him to Grace, back when she was new, with his scraped knee and trembling lips. She led him with quiet confidence, telling him that “ _she can fix it,_ ”, patting him with a now rare smile on the shoulder. 

Sure, his sister hasn’t held his hand ever since. She’s barely been in the same room with him actually, unless it’s for Dad’s little group experiments. But as much as it's from a distance, he still likes her. Likes her a lot. 

The problem is, Four isn’t sure if Seven likes him back. 

If there is one thing his sister lacks, it’s opinions, and that has never added up with him. She’s so smart, he sees it in class when she quietly scribbles down every answer without raising her hand, or in the training room as she dutifully observes and tracks and records all six of her sibling’s every move. Everything she sees, everything she clearly thinks, she must have something to say about well … something. 

But no. Seven speaks when spoken too, and seems, well, not content, but resigned to stay quiet and out of the way. And Four can’t understand that. 

Attention is loud. It’s full, it drowns out everything else in his world, and he will take whatever chances he gets to make a fuss, even if it only gets his butt kicked. But Seven seems to get on just fine without it. She’s never talking when they have dinner without Dad, never there in the main room when they sit and read and maybe even get to fight over the TV. She doesn’t raise her voice or laugh or react much to anything really. She takes up no space and asks for nothing really in return. 

Her world must be so quiet. Four doesn’t know how she can stand it.

Sure, silence would be a goddamn blessing for him, what he would give for just a moment’s, a _second’s_ proper peace. But he knows there's something more than that. Surely if you don’t know any different, having no one but yourself all the time, well … that can’t be fun.

The thing is, as much he knows that, he isn’t sure what to do about it. 

His first instinct is to well, bother her. Knock on her door, flop onto her bed, give her the patented “Number Six treatment”. But her door always seems to be shut, and unlike Six, who he sees and trains with every day, there's always that space, that gap between her and the rest of the house that makes Four unsure if the sledgehammer treatment is quite right. 

Some part of him thinks _fine_. She wants to be left alone, wants to be apart. She lives at Hargreeves side, content to look down at all of them through her clipboard and doesn’t want to come back down to Earth. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone else in the house, so why should it bother him. 

But it does. It does bother him. Something about seeing Seven through a sheet of glass that she is too young to have constructed all by herself bothers him into his core. 

And call him crazy, maybe he is already, but he looks at her, at his sister and he sees... himself. 

Which is absolutely mad because, as he said before, they couldn’t be more different. 

Seven is smart and present and quiet. Four is dumb and distracted and a ‘pain-in-the-butt’. Four likes sweet things and lie-ins and drawing on his walls. Seven doesn’t seem to care about food much at all, waking up early and on time to dutifully march to class like a good, well-behaved daughter should without a mark on her pristine brickwork.

It’s simple; Four is a ‘disappointment’, Seven is ‘ordinary’. 

Ordinary. 

Four has never liked that word. Not for his sister. 

Yes, she doesn’t have powers. But if you ask Four, well… he wouldn’t say no to some of that. She is free pretty much to do as she pleases, gets to watch when Four is thrown to the ground again and again and again without breaking a sweat. She gets a full night’s sleep. She won’t even have to go on these missions, or whatever when the time comes. 

But it isn’t just that. 

He can’t put his finger on it, but he is sure that, despite all that he has been told since that fateful morning where his father announced her condition with a tone that would in future only be used for his middle son, that the word just doesn’t work for her. 

Firstly, it doesn’t seem like a very nice thing to say about anybody, let alone a twelve-year-old whose supposed to be your kid. 

But secondly, it just … it just shouldn’t apply to someone like his sister. Someone who cries, almost silently, when One and Two fight in the hallways. Who always lets you use the bathroom first, even if she’s been waiting all afternoon. Someone who can name all the poets in Pogo’s textbook and can click in perfect time with the songs on the radio. 

Sure, she’s detached, rarely part of the action. But he thinks Seven cares, and she tries to look out for them in her own, separate little way. In a house like theirs, there is nothing normal about that. 

So no, to Klaus, ‘ordinary’ is the one thing his sister is not. 

But it feels correct, echoing with something that tells him not to question it, not to deny it any further. Number Seven is ordinary; she is different from them. It rings with a purpose, almost like everything else that he _knows_ , so why would he question it? 

But he still doesn’t like that word. It doesn’t fit. It’s not right. 

It’s true, but it is not his. Not really. 

And at some point, he decided that his sister needs to know. Needs to be told.

So, one afternoon, Four tells her. 

He isn’t looking for Number Seven, per se. In fact, he’s actively avoiding people altogether. Last night was … rough to say the least, and since a very fragile breakfast and three hours of mind-numbing classes, Four has decided to take advantage of any open, brightly lit space he can get. 

Therefore, he’s in the courtyard. 

It’s cold, freezing in fact. Four wishes he’d grabbed a jacket in his haste, but he knows if he goes back in now he’ll lose his chance at fresh, and he means _fresh,_ air for another twenty-four hours. And that is not an option, thanks. 

He’s content to mooch around the empty flower beds, for now, kicking at the frozen grass out of the back window’s sightline. He’s behind the canopy, where several bushes obscure a small rockery that he assumes must have come with the house, mainly because his Dad does not seem the type to take up DIY, nor to commission something so impractical and frivolous as charming garden décor. 

He shivers, once again considering giving in and slipping back inside, when he hears a small cough bounce off the courtyard walls. He doesn’t jump, no matter how fried his nerves are, and instead holds his breath as he peers around the shrubbery.

Oh, it’s Seven.

His sister looks up, her pale fingers clutched around a hardcover book and her mouth forming a perfectly circular “o”. She’s wearing a jacket because she’s actually sensible, and her whole body tenses before she jumps to her feet. 

“Four! Sorry, I was just uh-”

Reading apparently. Four can’t see the title from here, but the book is heavy with no pictures, and judging by where her fingers mark her previous place, she’s been sitting out here for a while. 

“Aren’t you cold?”

Four has to ask, before anything else. His teeth are chattering after only a few minutes, and yeah he’s not dressed appropriately, but Seven isn’t wearing gloves, or a scarf or any other branded accessory bestowed on them to keep the weather off their backs.  
His sister blinks, as if she expected anything other than concern for her well-being, before shaking her head. 

“No, I uh, I’m okay … aren’t you?” 

“No,” Four lies, trying to conceal his own shivers.

Seven doesn’t say anything, and they stare at each other for a few seconds. Four’s breath creates mist in the air, as does hers, and he’s about to say something when his sister looks at the floor. 

“Sorry, I can go, I-” 

He all but grabs her. 

“No, you don’t have to! In fact, I was wondering if I could-”

 _Okay,_ he thinks, _this is what we’re doing isn’t it?_

“-join you?”  
His sister stops at that, her eyes partially covered by her fringe but her mouth curling with skepticism. 

“… really?” 

Her voice is barely a whisper like she’s frightened of what he’ll do next. Which is ridiculous, since when has anyone been scared of him? But he still replies gently with a nod. 

“Yeah, this courtyard is big enough for two, right?”

She nods back, still not looking at him, and as Four crosses to sit next to her they both sit in synch with each other, neither wanting to be the first to encroach on the other’s territory. 

It’s awkward. 

This is what Four means when he says he doesn’t know if Seven likes him too. Sure, she’s always pleasant, nice from afar, but if they do actually get any more than a few seconds together she acts like she’s ready to run a mile. His sister hasn’t reopened her book, her knuckles white and wrapped around the spine, and Four has no such prop to occupy him. 

But now he’s sitting down, he can see the dark shadow of an old and limbless man creeping across the mansion’s back wall, and he suddenly can’t bear their silence any longer. 

“So, what are you reading?”

He keeps his voice light, calm. He’s not that interested really, but he’ll do anything to escape the inevitable racket that lurches ever closer towards him. Failing that, it’ll be nice to hear his sister express an interest in something.

She doesn’t move, her knees held tight together and her shoulders hunched protectively, but then Number Seven opens the bare front cover to reveal a printed title page. Four leans over to see it, squinting to decipher the swirling text, sounding out each letter with his lips. 

_The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson_

Urgh, hauntings. 

Four tries not to let that put him off though, keeping his eyes fixed on the printed paper and sticking out his bottom lip. 

“Cool, any good?”

His sister shrugs, addressing the edge of her skirt. 

“I guess?”

He runs her finger over the author’s name, and Four thinks that’s it before she confides to the ink. 

“It’s kind of sad. The main character she … it doesn’t end well for her, she tries to go home and-,”

She shakes her head.

“I’ve read it before, though, I don’t know why I keep coming back to it,”

Well, how about that, Seven has a thought on something. He’ll alert the papers. 

It’s a shame Four can’t offer something in return. He could say something about how hauntings usually are kind of sad, even if it tends to get drowned out by everything else, but that might kill whatever mood this is. 

Instead, he hums, staring at the leafy walls. 

“Wants to go home huh? Can’t relate myself,” 

He leans towards her with a careful smile. 

“I’m ready to blow this joint, aren’t you?” 

It’s true. The only time any of them leaves is for training, and Seven doesn’t have to do that. Maybe Grace takes her places? He doesn’t know. Besides, it’s not like they see much when they finally get outside the mansion’s four walls, and Four only gets the chance when it’s already gone midnight. 

Seven shrugs, without commitment. 

“I guess,” 

She offers nothing more, and Four decides to keep going. He can’t feel anything, not yet, but he doesn’t want to sit in silence. Not when he has Seven all by herself. 

“The old man can’t keep us locked up forever though, right? I can’t see any of us still being here when we’re thirty, well, maybe Number One, but he doesn’t count,”

He thinks he might have seen her lip twitch at that, and Four’s mouth prickles a little too, so he keeps talking. 

“We could go to the mall, the diner like they do in those movies Pogo showed us! We could get ice cream, or whatever, spend all Dad’s riches on rubbish like candy and unapproved books and God forbid-,” he pauses for effect, “something that’s not Navy blue!

He tries to nudge her there, coax another opinion out from her, but she seems at least comfortable to let him talk, which is nice. He knew he liked her for some reason. 

He starts to rattle off a few more places; the park, the beach, the library, looking pointedly at the book once again in her lap, but still nothing. Four is running out of  
options here, and eventually, he arrives at something that he was unconsciously trying to avoid.

“If nothing else, we’ll have those missions, though I can’t see much chance for socializing then,”

He laughs, a little awkwardly.

“But hey, it can’t be all bad, right?”

Four wants to mean that, but even before Seven shakes her head without vigor, he doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t want to stay here too long, but he can’t help but finish the thought.

“If nothing else, it’ll be a change of scenery right? Class outing, field trip! We can’t say no to that, right?”

Four’s voice dies down a little, his weak attempts falling flat as he practically feels Seven’s throat tighten. He already knows what she’s going to say before she says it because any mention of the M-word is probably going to be a vibe killer. 

Seven mutters, her mouth barely visible, tucked away into her chest. 

“I won’t be coming though,”

She always talks like that, as if her lips don’t even want to trouble you by moving. She mumbles hiding behind her hair, as if she doesn’t even have the energy to speak another word. 

Four sobers up a little. 

“No, I guess you won’t,” 

Seven shuts her book gently, and Four practically feels the conversation close with it.

They sit in silence, Four shifting as the freezing stone spreads its chill across the underside of his pants. He fidgets, uncomfortable in the uncertain moment, desperately searching for a way out of the conversational cul-de-sac. 

He almost gets up to leave, when a thought slips across his eyes, and his chest wells up with a familiar certainty so quickly that Four grabs it with both hands. 

Now’s his chance. 

“You can come to the other things, though,”

Okay, lame, but is that’s what we’re going with. Four isn’t sure where his plan is, but it feels right. Correct in both the abstract sort of way things usually are for him, but also in something that isn’t very supernatural at all. 

“You’re still our sister, one of us, even if … even if you can’t come with us,”

He turns to Seven, whose breath ceases to fog the crisp winter’s air. 

“You know, that right?”

She doesn’t move. Four doesn’t think she’s going to say anything for a moment before hot mist exhales with a skeptical sigh. 

“Am I?” 

Her voice is barely there, and Four decides not to move either like he’s afraid he’ll spook her.

“Of course, you are,”

She shakes her head.

“No, I’m not,”

She swallows, twisting her hands in her skirt without looking him in the eyes.

“You know I’m not … like you,”

Her book sits balanced on her knees, and she stares at the muddy patches peeking through the grass. But Four doesn’t like her expression, and while he isn’t sure what he’s going for here either, he feels like he needs to make himself clearer. 

“I know that, but that doesn’t mean-,”

He sighs, running his tongue over his teeth to try to sate the growing pressure in his throat, forcing himself to keep going. 

“Seriously, I know you don’t have to-,” he grimaces, spreading his hands, “-do the same things we do, but the house would be so empty without our Number Seven around,” 

She shakes her head. 

“No, that’s not true,”

He smiles, shuffling a little closer to her. 

“It is!”

He stumbles a moment, then smirks, nudging her a little.

“Do you know how many butt kickings you’ve saved me from in class?”

She looks up, frowning suspiciously. 

“What do you mean? I haven’t-?”

Four grins, a little sheepishly. 

“Well, without your smarts, Pogo would have had me stuffed next to that dirty great grizzly bear in the living room the last history test,”

He gives her a gentle nudge, and she remains still. 

“I really owe you one,”

Seven’s mouth falls open. 

“That’s cheating!”

Four shrugs. 

“Only a little! But if you hadn’t been so smart and well organized that would have been it for me,”

She looks scandalized, but he can see the edges of her mouth twitch into a reluctant smile. She even fires back.

“Well, that’s more about you being a cheater than anything to do with me,”

Granted, but Four is on a roll. 

“Well maybe, but what about when you always knock on our doors when we’re late, or share your notes with Ben while Five acts like a grumpy hoarder?”

He grins, trying to navigate his way to the right answer. He thinks he’s going in the right direction, but his mouth is running on without him and he has no choice but to let it roll. 

“You always tried to stop them when Two and One go at it, and you never complain when Three cuts in line!”

He elbows her again, and he thinks he might just see the edge of a blush spreading across her cheeks. He’s getting somewhere, heading towards something he knows is correct, certain, true. 

“You keep this house moving in your own way, you always listen out for us, feel our vibe even if you’re not always part of it,”

His mouth dries. 

“It’s like your superpower!”

He isn’t lying. He is right, correct, and he’s riding that fact so high he can barely feel the gravity that binds him back to reality. He is overwhelmed with the sense to tell, letting what he thinks, he _feels_ out like rainfall. 

But meanwhile, down here on Earth, his sister has shrunk, just a little, back into her seat. 

“You always can hear on our wavelength, and I know we’re not great about it, but you don’t have to stay apart, out here,”

His mouth feels like a desert, full of salt against the chilled winter air, and it burns with an honesty that isn’t just his own.

“You’re part of the team, you know?”

He feels like he’s talking across a cavern, but like before, he doesn’t know or even understand what he’s reading from. He has to say it, she has to know. 

So, he tells her.

“You’re our Extra-ordinary Number Seven,”

She flinches. 

The words still feel right, hanging in the frosty air, and Four means them as much as he always does, even if he can’t tell her where they came from. So he smiles as if trying to offer a hand. 

But now he’s let it loose, and he watches as Seven’s slightly upturned mouth snaps back into a hard line. Her eyes turn to glass, but they are not shining. They’re clouded, blurring over her eyes as tension leeches throughout her body. 

Her voice is barely more than a breath of wind.

“That’s not funny,”

What?

His sister whispers, looking down at her mud-caked shoes as she twists them in the broken grass. 

“You’re making fun of me,”

But he’s-? 

“Seven, no I-,”

His sister stands up abruptly, brushing the back of her skirt before her hand comes up quickly to wipe under her hair. Four stands too, reaching out to try and soothe her, but she freezes and steps back. 

When she speaks, her voice is thick and forced out in a single, halting breath. 

“You can play your games with Number Six, Four, but please don’t test them out on me,” 

Games?

“No, Seven, I’m not playing with you I’m trust trying to say-,”

“Say what?”

Four stumbles, whatever line that had been leading him so far slipping through his fingers as he scrambles to keep up. 

“Say that, that you’re one of us, and that you’re part of this-,”

“You’re _lying,_ ”

Four shakes his head, as he stares at his sister whose face is twisted with … with … betrayal. 

But that’s not right he was being serious for once just let him-

“Please I just wanted to tell you that-,” 

“ _Stop,_ ”

Her voice cracks like a speaker, as more emotion forces its way out of his sister’s throat than Four has heard in his entire life. His arms are frozen, locked in place, outstretched in front of him as sheer _dread_ drops into the pit of his gut. His sister’s body almost vibrates the air around her with tension as she screws her face inwards. 

He messed up, no he didn’t mean _he was telling the truth he’s sorry he didn’t mean to hurt her feelings he-_

His sister relaxes suddenly, taking a deep, shuddering breath as she reaches inside her jacket and produces a small, cylindrical tub full of tiny, clattering pills. 

She twists the lid, takes two, and forces them on the back of her tongue. She swallows with a gasp and sighs, still not looking her brother in the eye, before she  
shakes her head.

Seven finally looks back up, but not to his face, drawing back that grey curtain behind her hair and over her brow. Her face is calm, but grim, detached. 

Four tries to speak, stuttering out an explanation, a reaffirmation, an apology, but she shakes her head. 

“You should go, I think the others will be looking for you,”

He steps forward, his mouth like battery acid as he desperately tries to bring that life back in his sister’s face. 

“Seven please, I wasn’t making fun, I was just trying to tell you’re-”

But as he thinks what he means, that terrible, awful, incorrect word beginning with “O”, he knows she doesn’t understand. He doesn’t either, he just feels it. That’s what it is, a feeling. But it’s not enough to break through whatever it is his sister, his father, all of them really, have held up between them. And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

She picks up her book, still not even sparing a look for him, her knuckles as white as the frost on coating the bare branches. She turns away, directing her silence, her anger, her betrayal back towards the mansion. 

Four thinks she’s going to leave, and he’s right, but then his sister whispers out a final, lifeless request. 

“Leave me alone Four,”

She walks towards the house, leaving her brother to stand alone in the courtyard. 

He isn’t sure what to do.

He’s sorry, he really is, he just wanted her to know how he feels. To say what has to be said. So that she understands, so that she knows the _truth_.

 _But maybe,_ he thinks, shrinking as the door slams with a splitting echo across the empty lot and that shadow he’d been avoiding finally slips by to loom right over his shoulder, _that in their house, this is the only place where the truth will get you._

====

_Klaus presses the receiver as close as he can to his ear. He tries to hold his breath down, but his heart beats faster and faster in his ears, almost drowning out the faint voice that he desperately clings to down the line._

_“Vanya, Vanya it’s me, it’s Klaus, can you hear me?”_

_The line rattles, like chains against a stone wall, but he hears her again. It’s like she’s trying to shout across a snowstorm, with only bubbles of sound making it all the way across to him._

_“Kl- Gshhhhsisjdjismsosi- can you h- shdufidnsgsdidnsshsj- it’s too quiet-jdhdbshasjajsbdbssnsbs- where are you-asudsjshsjs-”_

_Klaus curses, but it’s definitely her, and she sounds okay? Maybe? He can’t be sure though. If there’s any panic in her voice it’s washed out by everything else on the connection._

_“Vanya, I don’t know what- where are you? Are you hurt, is anyone with you?”_

_He’s asking too many questions, and he knows it, but he can’t think and she’s alive and oh Christ how are they getting out of this? The line rattles on, and the speaker continues to cough and splutter in his ear._

_“Kl- agsudjdnssyskdhd- the room it’s-iahsdyduidnfsyjsndbdis-no sound and I-ahsudidnsgahansgsgs- the others we can’t-astdduifhagsbsb-,”_

_“Vanya! Vanya? Are you alright? I don’t know where the others are, well I think I do but it’s complicated and I -,”_

_The line whines, feedback ringing even off his room’s grotty walls, and Vanya gets even fainter, barely a breath over a hurricane._

_“Where are we- ahsudiahdhsysisndgdhsjsyshhasgshhs- can’t see- ahsididnsgs- like before and- haagjsnsgaja- quiet my heart it’s too loud and- ahaudisnssakosusbsgaahajsnsgaangs- get out of he-,”_

_“Vanya? Look I-,”_

_Oh shit, what are they gonna do? He doesn’t even know how to help himself. She doesn’t sound good and if she’s no good what about the rest of them or even him and oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIT._

_“agsyidjsyaujnsgajjshsysj- Klaus? Are you there?-aisjdhjsknsyiksnshysj,”_

_Her voice cuts through the static, clear and crisp for just one second._

_One moment of clarity._

_He swallows, his name rolling over his tongue as he grips the phone. His mouth moves without him as his eyes run over and over the wallpaper, no plan, no ideas, no nothing but a feeling that he knows is true, even if it’s more for his sister’s benefit than his own._

_“We’re getting out of here, alright? I’ll try and … ah shit I’ll try and find the others, and we’ll figure something out, okay? Vanya-?”_

_She’s almost gone, he doesn’t know if she can even hear him._

_“I’m coming to find you, all of you,”_

_The line dies._

_Klaus swallows, putting the phone down before his eardrum bursts with the droning, mocking beep._

_He rests his palm on the dresser, his fingers pushing through the gathered dust as he tries to steady himself._

_Alright, alright._

_She’s okay. Panicked, shaken, clearly not having a good time, but okay. If she wasn’t okay, then surely the building would have been long gone by now, it’s not like she hasn’t trashed this rock before._

_But this hotel, prison, whatever, clearly doesn’t play by the rules, and what does he know about anything?_

_Wait, don’t answer that._

_But he’s just as trapped as she is, as all of them are, and what is he gonna do, heck, what even can he do?_

_He’s just circled back to where he was before._

_Trapped in this room. Completely alone. Useless to anyone._

_But he knows he didn’t lie. He told Vanya the truth, and that means he’s getting out of here. That means, somehow, he knows a way out of this hole._

_How does he find out that he knows the way out? Well, that might be the tricky part. In fact, he has a feeling this is going to be a colossal bitch._

_So, for the moment, he’ll have to put up with these four walls, which grow ever dimmer in the flickering, weakening lamplight, just for a little while longer._

_He shudders._

_He better come up with something soon, he thinks, leaning back against the dresser with fingers itching for a cigarette. Klaus fucking hates the dark_  
====  
Reginald still doesn’t know. 

Like many things in his sad little life, Four is sure that his other “power”, or whatever this feeling may be, is his secret alone. The fact buzzes under his skin and fizzes on his tongue. Freezes beneath his cheek. 

Even without his whole _deal_ , Four is sure that if his father did have an inkling of what else he was capable of, Reginald would have forced out of him the second he was wrestled off for ‘special training’. 

Four has long decided to keep it that way. This sense, this _skill_ is just for him, and him alone. From as young as seven years old he had promised himself that his dear old dad would never, _never_ find out. He’s twelve and three quarters now, and he’s had enough time to see exactly how his father’s teaching skills work from every angle. 

Sometimes he thinks that maybe if he did let on, gave a clue that there was something more to his deal than the never-ending screaming and hordes of the unquiet dead, it might give his father something else to focus on. The world is so loud, so full, so _much_. But no more so when his father drags him away with a firm, icy grip on his shoulder, leading him to the tomb that wasn’t built for Four but might as well have been. 

Maybe if he gave him something quieter, something so subtle and so innate that even Four can’t get his words around it, then perhaps he would stop. Maybe he could train like the others, at home in the daylight with Grace on hand to patch him up and send him upstairs to the comfort of his room. 

But that’s half the problem, isn’t it? Four can’t. He just can’t spell out anything at all. 

He can’t explain the ghosts; how they don’t want to be controlled, how they’re just trapped and sad and everywhere, all the time, no matter how hard he tries. As he chokes on his tears, muttering so quiet that his father pulls him up by his shirt to be heard, and pleads for him to “ _-please don’t make me go back they won’t listen to me please sir please-_ ”, he knows that his father will never understand. 

How can he tell him, the great Sir Reginald Hargreeves, that his fourth, most disappointing son has yet another talent that can’t be seen or tested or trained? There is nowhere he can be thrown, no object or medium, that Four knows of, to force it through. Four can’t tell, he can’t even _see_ when he’ll next know when to duck or stop or peer through a door crack. He can’t explain to anyone what he means, and why he means it. He just does it, tells it, acts on the truth when it comes and he doesn’t know why or how and when, it just _happens._

His father likes things to be known. To be measured. Controlled. 

Why give him yet another frustration? Why offer up another dismay that will only be taken out on Four in the small hours, when his other siblings lie asleep in their beds? 

It’s his. For better or for worse, it’s his. 

It doesn’t offer much comfort, but when Four looks up from the chilled marble floor to see his father staring down at him, he isn’t surprised when he sternly shakes his head and tells him “ _three more hours, Number Four_ ,” 

Four is never wrong about these things. But he hopes, perhaps childishly, that he will be someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya!
> 
> Sorry this chapter has taken so long - it just sort of kept growing, and while I did think about splitting it in half I just couldn't decide where to cut it, so I must present you with this 10,000+ word monstrosity (sorry about that too!) 
> 
> Hope you're well and enjoyed! This was a real tough one to write, it's sort of a fill-in exposition kind of chapter before more exciting things start happening, but it's been keeping me busy in between uni deadlines and with all the season three stuff coming out I've had a flood of motivation to make me write again! 
> 
> I'll see you soon, hopefully! (I'm not planning on making all these chapters 10k so the next ones should be a bit quicker ... maybe?) 
> 
> Love to you all, 
> 
> Min x


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